My vacant hands stare at me. I've come to the point where I don't know what to do with them, any more. They are a metaphor of failure for months of my life. Empty and grasping at stillness.
My Muse is on a pilgrimage. Chasing meaninglessness, and flirting with absenteeism. How long will she stay away?
Does she have any incentive to return?
I notice that the spirals of hours have bleached my hands brighter by several orders of magnitude. Yet the external whitening is only pinpricks deep.
I know, with the conviction of coincidence, that I am embettered. Though I don't understand how loss of pretensions should equate to this merciless internal zero.
10:37 p.m. - 2014-07-07
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